


The Lounge

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Futurefic, M/M, Murder Husbands, Nygmobblepot Week 2017, references to murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 11:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12131910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: The Iceberg Lounge is the most exclusive club in Gotham for good reason.  Sleek, original, and pricey, it caters only to the elite and the interesting.  Including, if one is lucky enough to see him, the Riddler, known lover of the Iceberg's powerful proprietor.





	The Lounge

The Iceberg Lounge has been identified, more than once, as one of the Seven Wonders of Gotham (albeit listed, must to the proprietor’s frustration, eternally beneath the allure of the city’s resident super rodent). Located in City Center, the Lounge sprawls well beneath the surface, a miniature Antarctica even in the midst of summer.

The line to enter the lounge is long and well-guarded, the twin bouncers at the door almost telepathic in their ability to select only the elite or interesting for entry. Of those chosen, no one enters without an elegant coat against the bite in the air, the curving ice sculptures, and the delicate crystalline art of frost crackling along the glass walls. Where the denizens of more prosaic clubs are judged by their designer dresses and perfectly cut suits, the clients of the Lounge declare income and style through one-of-a-kind bespoke coats in leather and fur. 

And feathers – but those are reserved exclusively for two men only; one of whom remains ever within the confines of the club, while the other has just walked through the front door.

He is tall and slim, his sharp features sharpened even further rather than softened by his angular smile. He moves with total assurance, a gold cane twirling in his right hand and peeks of metallic green shining from beneath his sleek black coat. His steps take on the beat of the music, jazz rhythms and a scratching drum, almost instinctively. He is a showman.

“Riddler,” some of the patrons whisper, a low murmur of interest and recognition. He’s been on the news this week – an ingenious caper, a million dollars missing from a local millionaire’s now riddle-laden house, and another zero added to the reward the city offers for his capture. 

No one reaches for a phone.

For the men and women who frequent the lounge, no reward is worth the social downfall that would result due to banishment from the Iceberg; and anyone who threatened the Riddler’s freedom would be banned, at the very least.

A slow death is equally likely.

“Two drinks,” the Riddler purrs to the bartender. She nods almost reverentially and sets to work with no more instruction. Knowing both drinks will be prepared to exacting standards, the Riddler turns to better take in the crowd. At his throat and trailing down the line of his coat’s lapels, a million tiny, shimmering feathers rustle and glint green in the white light.

A few patrons idly wonder how many birds – hummingbirds, perhaps? – gave their lives for that delicate, shifting effect. Most quickly push the thought away. These are mobsters and politicians and millionaires scattered among the ice and frost, but even they know it does not do to ask too many questions in the Lounge.

“Sir,” the bartender says, resting two sparkling glasses on a silver tray. He winks at her, takes the tray with seeming carelessness, and casts an amused look at the fascinated patrons. 

He lifts a finger to his lips. “What,” he asks in a whisper, grinning as the room grows quiet and still “is so delicate that to even whisper its name will shatter it?”

The silence breaks into soft murmurs and the Riddler chuckles, turning smoothly on his heel and climbing the ornate, curving staircase at the back of the club. At the top of the stairway is a balcony, the silvery railing encased in ice and glass. 

And looking over the balcony, wrapped in a dark coat with pauldrons of shimmering purple feathers, is the Penguin.

They cannot be heard from such a distance, yet almost very eye is upon them.

“Oswald,” the Riddler greets the Iceberg’s owner, his eyes those of a predator seeking prey. 

But the Penguin is no prey. Small and compact, he carries three weapons on him at all times, not counting the one hidden in the sleek shine of his cane/umbrella. He doesn’t give way. “Ed,” he responds, tilting up his chin. He is white and black against the ice, with perfect chips of icy green. He takes his drink from the tray and sips it, eyes flickering over his domain. 

He smiles with satisfaction at the people in his thrall.

Warm leather touches his cheek and he tilts his head into the touch – an acknowledgement, and never a concession. “It went well,” he says, not needing to ask.

The Riddler smirks, cold and delighted at once. “Of course it did,” he responds. “Everything went exactly as planned.”

The Penguin’s dark lashes flutter against his cheeks. “No one has even reported them missing yet, among all the excitement over your beautiful destruction of that mansion.”

The Riddler leans in close, his breath a warm mist. “I didn’t destroy it, Oswald. I simply…redefined its purpose.” 

“A labyrinth?” the Penguin asks, his arms sliding around the Riddler’s waist and drawing him close. He smiles to himself – his husband is half-hard at the memory of the sprawling mansion, split and twisted into an endless maze, and of the splashes of blood as the two of them took their time settling personal scores while the police searched madly for their missing -and entirely unharmed - millionaire. 

“A mausoleum.” 

They kiss then, the Riddler leaning down and the Penguin arching against him, hot and deep and shameless to the audience below. They can almost scent the tang of blood in the air, the cries for mercy, the heady power of having control over another’s final moments. 

The Riddler moans, and the Penguin sinks his teeth into his lover’s bottom lip. “Not in front of the patrons, love,” he says, amused as always by his lover’s need for sex.

“They know what we’ll be doing anyway,” the Riddler argues, but he steps backward, pulling the Penguin along toward the owner’s personal apartments. 

The door opens at a rush of DNA. The Penguin lifts the Riddler’s bleeding thumb to his mouth and sucks the blood away. “Let them,” he says, and laughs as the door slides shut behind them.


End file.
